Chapter 4 The Thin Line

People think surviving is loud-like screaming, or fighting, or stealing.

But most of the time, it's quiet. Numb. Like floating just under the surface of cold water, watching your breath rise without reaching the top.

I don't know how long I've been sitting on the bathroom floor. My legs are numb. The only light comes from the hallway, a pale gold sliver sneaking through the cracked door. I keep thinking I'll get up. Do something. Clean, maybe. Make a plan.

But I don't.

My phone has 2% battery and no texts.

I scroll through my old messages with Mom. The last one was two weeks ago.

MOM: Home late. Don't wait up.

ME: OK. Need anything?

MOM: Just sleep.

She never answered after that. Never came home.

I slam the phone down harder than I mean to. It clatters across the floor, hits the wall. The case cracks.

I curl into myself and scream-except no sound comes out. Just this raw, tight ache in my throat. The kind that means the tears aren't far.

But I won't cry. I already made that rule.

The knock comes at 9:13 a.m.

Three short raps, sharp and impatient.

I don't even have to check. It's the landlord.

I throw on a sweatshirt and open the door partway. Mr. Gordon stands there in his always-too-tight polo shirt and clipboard in hand. His mouth's already tight, like he's done being polite.

"You're late again, Helena."

I blink, feigning confusion. "My mom's not back yet. She picked up a few extra shifts."

He frowns. "She hasn't returned any of my calls."

"Yeah, she dropped her phone in a sink at work. It's busted."

His eyes narrow. "You've got until Monday. After that, I need full payment or keys on the counter. No more grace."

I nod like I understand, like I'm just a kid who'll pass the message.

But I'm not just a kid anymore.

I'm whatever comes after that.

I walk to three different stores with a borrowed resume and too much hope.

The first manager laughs. "You need a permit if you're under eighteen."

The second says they're not hiring, even though there's a sign in the window.

The third doesn't even look up.

By the time I get back home, I've walked five miles, and the only thing I've gained is a blister.

I take off my shoes, stare at my swollen feet, and think: This is what falling apart feels like. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just... slow.

That night, I dream of Mom.

We're in the kitchen. She's making eggs, singing something soft under her breath. I ask her where she went. She turns, smiles.

"I never left, sweetheart. You just stopped looking."

I wake up gasping. The sheets are tangled around my legs, the room colder than usual. I try to slow my breathing, but my chest won't calm down.

I sit up and whisper into the darkness.

"Where are you?"

Silence answers.

Rule #6: The line between surviving and sinking is thinner than anyone tells you.

One missed call. One broken rule. One bad day.

By morning, I make a decision.

If I don't come up with the rent by Monday, I'll have to leave. Pack up, disappear before Mr. Gordon can throw me out.

I can't wait for help anymore. Not from school. Not from friends. Not from a mother who might never come back.

It's up to me now.

It's only me.